Lace on the windows suggesting an everyday sunrise. Mostly I am sure of the monastic arrival – the quiet presence of light creeping as a prayer held beneath the breath. Yet other days, I am not so sure. I sing myself a druidic tune which asks – begs really – for more light. More sentences. More proof that there is no “I” in “I am not alone.”
I remember the time he asked me about being a feminist. This and hundred other conversations to explore in a another way. Instead, pillow talk and Tchaikovsky's letters in a lonely bed.
As the enlightened ones would say, there is no other way. This way.
Hiccups and a headache. The letter I didn't write. Hours pass watching the afternoon grow black. We are all liars. Around here, the churchy faces of tolerance and love. Love the sinner hate the sin...or some crap like that. Yet as soon as the crack of permission is granted, a leakage of the primary colors in fear and hate. And what about my lies? Sitting across from dissenting lenses I hold my tongue, hiding from those who don't deserve to know.
“Be like water,” and other Bruce Lee advice. It rains just above freezing, almost ice. Almost dangerous. With each fracture in justice, a recognized closing. Regression. The temperature of the collective is asking to be monitored.
But when I am still in the folded silence, I become aware of the future in my eyes – a transpersonal knowing of the power to heal. Love, my lovely, is the only coherence that settles the turbid flow. Yes to darkness. Yes to hate. Yes to violence. But also, yes to love. Yes to water in motion. Yes to the mystical science of reality.
a love affair unending
because it always is